


Library Lovers

by Quokkalicious



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1926, Banter, Bibliophilia with a capital B, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Libraries, Maybe a weird Pride and Prejudice Crossover?, Parties at manors, Roaring 20s, did I mention this is stupid?, having the hots for books, introverts talk around each other, this is a pretentious mess, this is a stupid crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quokkalicious/pseuds/Quokkalicious
Summary: Frances likes books way more than she likes people. So she works on a plan to get inside one of the finest libraries nearby, but things don't go exactly as planned. A Gatsby-style story about bibliophilia and blossoming friendships.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Library Lovers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hello Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257918) by [LyraDraconis (NamiSwaannn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamiSwaannn/pseuds/LyraDraconis). 



> Sorry in advance for this monstrous author’s note!  
> This was loosely inspired by LyraDraconis' Dramione fic "Hello Again" which I read and thoroughly enjoyed a while back.  
> I don’t even know how to explain this. Some friends of mine and I were bored out of our mind during the initial quarantine, and we decided via video chat to found a kind of “Corona writing group” with varying prompts. The first round of prompts was “false pretenses // derogate // trial” - my first idea was way grittier, but I desperately needed some lighthearted fluff at the time, so this convoluted mess is what came of it, and I guess I wanted to share it with you.  
> So the story is set in 1926, but I didn’t have a lot of time for research, so it mostly isn’t accurate from either a historical or linguistic pov (even if I tried to slap some 20s slang into it). I guess I imagined this in England? So my spelling in this is a crazy bastard child of British and American English, I apologize profusely for putting you through this.  
> It’s probably waaay to wordy and pretentious, but I ain’t changing nothing any more. Without further ado, here’s my mediocre attempt at a Twenties (romantic?!) comedy with what I hope passes as witty banter, have at it and enjoy! <3

The noise surrounding her was way too loud for her taste. Nevertheless, she could clearly see that everyone else was enjoying themselves – the decadent and bubbling drizzle of pouring champagne, the tinkling, coquettish laughter of the girls in their Charleston dresses and the upbeat tunes of the brass band on the stage at the head of the ballroom were all essential to the raucous soundscape that set the mood for the scene before her. She turned around herself and eyed the other guests with slight distaste. She felt utterly uncomfortable and out of her depth in this crowd, and she couldn’t help but begrudge them their mindless and ignorant joy while being so completely unaware of the struggles of those they undoubtedly considered beneath them. Yes, her family had had the good fortune to come into wealth recently – technically, she had every right to wander among these rich and colourful individuals that graced the room with their shenanigans, but in her heart, she knew she had never belonged here and likely never would.

She sighed and tried to concentrate on her original plan, the festivities drenched in golden hues were not what had drawn her here, after all. She was still looking for a way to make her escape without drawing too much attention to herself when the feedback of the microphone saved her.

“My dearest ladies and esteemed bastardly companions!” was hollered from the stage in what seemed to be, in Frances’ eyes, a misguided attempt at a humorous reception – two hours after the fucking party began. She rolled her eyes. Regardless of her own irritation, the rather uncouth address drew hearty bouts of laughter from the audience.

She knew that voice well, even if she had never spoken with him personally – he was the scion of Edward Fawley, whose moniker “The Automobile Emperor” already betrayed everything one needed to know about his social standing and how he could afford this palace of abysmal proportions, which his son tended to desecrate with his infamous shindigs on a regular basis. While Thomas Fawley was either revered or hated in their community with no known opinions in between, he was definitely talked about. And since her father had become a member on the board of directors in Fawley Senior’s company, Thomas’ presence occurred regularly in their home alongside his father for secretive business discussions.

She had never bothered to greet their guests – the rumours she had heard upon moving here hadn’t painted him in the rosiest of colours, and after witnessing an acquaintance’s account of his behaviour, her rotten opinion of him had manifested and rooted in her mind. Yet, snippets of the men’s conversations tended to waft upstairs when they passionately argued about the advantages and drawbacks of certain business deals, and his distinct drawl seemed to have stuck with her. Admittedly, the information she had gathered about him so far was rather sparse, but based on her impression, he was a rather unpleasant dewdropper. A slacker, partying away the days and making merry with his father’s money until the day he would step up and inherit said father’s company. He carried the absolutely careless air of someone who never had known hard work for the sake of making do – and judging by the curious lilt to his voice right now, he was absolutely zozzled.

Fawley Junior launched into some grand speech on the stage, and Frances really didn’t see the need to stick around any longer. Now that all eyes were on him, she saw her opportunity and slowly sidled away to the back of the room, pretending to fetch another drink for herself before slipping out the grand doors to the corridor.

She pressed her back against the cool wood and swiveled her head around, but apparently and to her overwhelming luck, all personnel was needed inside the ballroom to cater to the illustrious guests Fawley had gathered. She drew a deep breath, relieved that she wouldn’t need to make up excuses for anyone, rotten liar that she was. Stepping away from the door, she shook her head and silently berated herself, she had wasted way too much time already with her dallying and mingling. Her steps lead her to the main staircase, unsure where exactly she was going and nervous about the rather high possibility of being spotted in the extravagantly lit halls. Her father had been at this manor before, according to his description, her destination was somewhere on the first floor. That hardly narrowed it down, though, the Fawley’s estate was positively humongous.

Once she had braved the sweeping stairwell without being detected, she carefully slipped her heels from her feet and tiptoed over the lush, dark green carpet. She began her trek to the east wing to start her search, the party sounds slipping from the ballroom slowly fading until she was encased by silence for the first time since her arrival.

With every door she opened, finding anything but the object of her desire behind it, she doubted her scheme a bit more, until she began to feel dreadfully fiendish. Even the marble statue she came across in the hall, looking imperiously down its nose at her, seemed to be judging her. She knew right well that what she was doing was not exactly proper, yet she wanted to keep her contact with either Fawley to a minimum and couldn’t for the life of her fathom to outright ask them. By the time she had given up on the eastern part of the floor and was halfway through her exploration of the west wing, three quarters of an hour must have passed and she was thoroughly disheartened. Just as she had sworn herself she would abandon her secret mission if the next five doors would yield no results, she turned the next handle, looked up and promptly stumbled into the content of her sweetest dreams.

_This had to be heaven._

She closed the door behind her without another look back, absolutely captivated by the sight unfurling before her eyes. Spines of linen and leather were huddled closely on a seemingly infinite amount of ornate shelves; plush wing chairs, couches and recliners were strewn throughout the room, complemented by several mahogany desks with Emeralite lamps on them. An adorned gramophone rested on a small side table near the door. Large windows with gilded frames breached the outward wall, encased by soft-looking drapes the colour of fir trees, granting a splendorous view of the gardens. The moonlight spilling through the glass painted the vast room in an eerily beautiful light, while the far ends of the library were plunged into thick shadows and the illuminated kernels of dust dancing through the room resembled a dazzling miniature of the stars outside. It was _beautiful_.

The picture she had assembled in her head after her father told her of the Fawley’s library could do nothing but fall devastatingly short in comparison to the real thing. Its sheer size was messing with her mind, the room alone probably only slightly smaller than the floor of her family’s entire _house_. She inhaled deeply and smiled, the scent of printed pages and faraway worlds, of adventures and escapism permeated the air. She never felt more calm and at home than in this moment.

She pulled on the chain switch of the banker’s lamp on the nearest desk and started roaming around the bookshelves, caressing the spines of the tomes she passed and mapping out the way they were sorted in her head. She had visited every library she came across in her young life, mostly public ones, but this private collection amassed by Edward Fawley and his father and grandfather before him ranked amongst the most stunning she had the pleasure to see as of yet. She found books about history stretching from ancient civilisations to the development of the Great War, writings and essays about philosophy, art and music. The literature spanned everything from Greek plays to renaissance works like Bocaccio’s _Decameron_ to Shakespeare and modern novels. She even found a few James Joyces and a copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , which was only published the year before and reminded her quite vividly of the event downstairs. She was overjoyed when she discovered Joseph Conrad’s _Heart of Darkness_ , a story and political comment she had greatly cherished ever since her mother had gifted her a copy of her own.

She gingerly plucked the books she wanted to peruse from their nesting places and carried them over  to what had quickly become “her” desk, an affectionate sigh escaping her at the sight of all those lovely stories stacked on top of each other, just waiting to be read and  to carry her off to different times and worlds. She knew she would never get through even half of them this evening, but even though it was futile she nevertheless prayed for ample time to at least feast her eyes on the ones she had anticipated to know the most. She picked out an anthology of poetry and was completely lost to her surroundings barely five minutes after her eyes had skimmed the first line, walking aimlessly around the light of the lamp that bathed the perimeter in soft golden hues and muttering some of the lines to herself with a secretive smile.

“Tell me, is it a habit of yours to sneak through other people’s houses uninvited?”

A mocking tone laced the voice that abruptly came from behind her, breaking the reverent silence she had enjoyed so thoroughly and nearly sending her into cardiac arrest. She turned around with a gasp, the book already at her feet, momentarily banned from the recesses of her mind.

The man standing ten feet in front of her was no other than Thomas Fawley, heir of the estate and current thorn in her side. A thorn that looked entirely too pleased with himself. Her mind was still in the middle of processing the fact that she had been caught, some distant part of her idly wondering what had caused him to leave his party, and she probably looked like a trout as she flapped her mouth open and closed without ever saying anything before she managed to gather herself.

“I do believe I am invited,” she finally replied with a feigned confidence she didn’t feel in the slightest. “Technically,” she added.

He chuckled. “I don’t think I remember the invitation extending beyond the foyer and ballroom,” he said with an amicable air, but she thought she also detected a slight chiding.

“That was never explicitly stated.”

“You’re quite adapt at haggling.” He narrowed his eyes before letting out a small sigh. “Well then, enough games. Who are you? Why are you here? Has nobody ever taught you to ask before touching other people’s belongings? Or did you plan on escaping into the night with your spoil?” He eyed her carefully assembled tower of books suspiciously.

She looked down with heated cheeks, feeling perfectly embarrassed and reprimanded. The way he quickly fired off question after question and going so far as to suspect her of theft left her reeling, she felt like she was put on trial somehow and had to endure a cross examination. At the same time, his insinuation filled her with indignation and she so desperately wanted to turn the tables on him, even if she knew he was entitled to his prickly reaction. She _had_ snuck through the house and into the library without explicit permission, after all.

She looked up, tucked one of her unruly copper curls behind her ear and flicked the inconvenient feathers of her headband out of her eyes, ready to explain herself. “I just find that excessive parties are not my most adored activity,” she said weakly. “I am an avid reader though, and I’ve heard stories about this collection, and after my father told me, I simply couldn’t...”

“Your father? How would he know anything about our library?” he frowned.

“He’s been here before with you and your father, actually. William Whittam, he works for you. Anyway, when he told me -”

“William Whittam?” he interrupted her again, regarding her with new interest. “You must be the famous Francine then, right?”

She blinked and straightened herself. “Frances, if you please.” As much as she loved her mother, she could never really stand the primness that came with the name her mother had chosen for her. It was so entirely unfitting of her character, she thought. “And I certainly am in no way or shape famous,” she added.

“Oh, you are to me, Francine. Your father speaks highly of you, and all the time at that.” He raised an eyebrow.

She gritted her teeth, not only at the use of her full name, but also at the mocking undertone that had crept into his voice again. _Prick_.

“And what exactly was it that my father has told of me, pray tell?”

“If I recall correctly, and I always do, he did relay some endearing stories of your interests and… character,” he drawled.

She scoffed. “That is hardly an answer.”

“And yet, it is all you will get out of me,” he replied.

“How very cryptic of you,” she stated with narrowed eyes. Already, she had her fill of Thomas Fawley, and she strongly suspected she could go a lifetime without ever laying eyes on him again. She let her gaze wander through the room in order to avoid having to look at him, and as she regarded the books around them, she suddenly felt a bitter stab of envious anger. Had he even read any of those? Did he at all enjoy this treasure he had at his disposal everyday? She knew she wouldn’t hesitate to give a kidney and half of her liver just to spend a few more hours in this papery paradise. That train of thought pushed her not to dawdle any longer.

“I am aware that I may have overstayed my welcome very soon, but I’m here now anyway. So, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’d much rather return to my reading than talk in pointless circles with you.”

“Oh naturally, you can barely await to resume, I see. Say, would you go as far as to consider yourself a fully fleshed bibliophile?”

She wasn’t sure if he was actually trying his hand at meaningful conversation, but his pointedly offhanded tone made her wary for some reason she couldn’t yet put her finger on. She decided to be honest nonetheless. “I would like to describe myself as one. And I like to think that my love for the written word is one of my better qualities.”

He nodded along and she could tell he was trying hard to keep his features smooth enough to not betray a single thought, but she also detected the private smirk he couldn’t quite suppress. The indignation she had felt before returned tenfold and rushed over her in waves, because she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was _most definitely_ taking the mickey out of her, but she also didn’t know what part of her behaviour would have warranted that.

“What is so funny? Mayhaps you could be so courteous as to share with the class,” she finally snapped after several moments ticked by.

“Oh nothing. It’s just, for a reverent and adoring book lover such as yourself, you tend to be treating the objects of your affection rather poorly,” he said casually, but she didn’t trust the underhanded mirth in his eyes one bit. Her gaze apparently betrayed her confusion, and he threw a pointed look at her feet – to the anthology she had completely forgotten after he’d surprised her.

Her cheeks heated so furiously, she doubted even hellfire could burn brighter or hotter. And she found she was rather willing to put that theory to the test, if only the Lord of the Underworld would show his mercy and let the ground swallow her _right this instant_. In her haste to put an end to her embarrassment as soon as possible, she bend over so forcefully that her headband loosened and fell to the ground just as she grabbed the book and stood to straighten herself. To her relief, her check for dog ears revealed no major damage. Yet, as if to top it all off, she beheld his reaction to her show as soon as she had mustered her self-control. To her chagrin, he had been watching her the whole time, hands crossed behind his back as if he were studying a work of art at the museum, were it not for the terribly bright grin that split his face from ear to ear. Him being the only sordid soul to witness her travesty was probably her sole saving grace.

She was still positively mortified, but her humiliation paired with her stormy ire due to his utter delight at her dilemma. Swirling in her stomach together, they made for an emotional cocktail so powerful and overwhelming she could barely get a word out.

“I...I think I will – I think I will be going back to the books now,” she stammered, even if one half of her brain screamed at her to just concede defeat and flee the battlefield immediately, surely no book would be worth the shame she was about to endure for more hours to come if she were to stay.

He simply  raised an eyebrow and shrugged before circling the library with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “Have at it,” he finally said and turned around.  With that, she sl unk away to one of the couches that promised an ample distance from his disconcerting presence while still granting her enough light to read.

She thought he would leave her alone now, and she silently berated herself for her perfectly harebrained idea of sneaking into the library of a stranger’s home. Why had she not realized sooner that her endeavor was laughably ill-advised and doomed from the start? But no, her only focus had been on those unattainable stories. Now that Fawley had shown her up so spectacularly, she really felt like a bumbling fool.

Her mute self-chastisement was interrupted by Fawley’s voice. “Care for a drink, Francine?”

“Frances,” she corrected without blinking, feigning to still be fully immersed in the poetry. Albeit she strongly suspected her rectification would fall on deaf ears as she was sure he was now antagonizing her intentionally and for the sole purpose of being unsurpassedly obnoxious.

When she finally looked up to chance a glance in his direction, she saw that he was already staring at her, having made himself comfortable in one of the wing chairs nearby with a tumbler of whisky in his hand. Where had that come from?

“A drink?”, he repeated.

“I’ll pass,” she snipped, still salty about her own stupidity and his absolute disregard for her preference concerning her name.

He arched one of his infuriating eyebrows again. “Curious, it sounds like you are rather cross with me.”

“Sounds like you can throw yourself from that nice window over there,” she muttered under her breath, trying to shift her concentration to John Keats once more. An unrefined snort came from the wing chair, followed by a long stretch of silence she would have welcomed five minutes before. Now, it made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. When she looked up again, he was fixing her with a stare, his lips pursed in thought. She instinctively knew he was warring with himself about some thing or another, and she furrowed her brows as if to dare him to spit it out, lest he choke on it.

“Well,” he eventually heaved with a heavy sigh, “it seems apologies are in order. Although I admit that I did enjoy messing with you, it was not my intention to hurt or humiliate you.”

While appreciating his concession, she was at a loss how to answer to that. She was unsure whether their tentative truce was ready for a sarcastic _“Colour me pleasantly surprised by your humane empathy,”_ so she simply acknowledged him with a nod.

Roughly forty pages later, she heard his footsteps coming closer before sensing how the couch gave to his weight as he sat next to her.

“Why didn’t you just come to me and ask too see the library? You know, like a sane person?”

“I… I didn’t exactly _want_ to talk to you.”

He looked flabbergasted. “But why? You hadn’t even met me before today.”

“I know, and it sounds stupid now. But I’d heard… certain things… hinting that you weren’t the most pleasant fellow to be around.”

His expression turned all kinds of sour. “I wouldn’t have pegged _you_ to be someone who put so much stock in common gossip, but it seems like we were both wrong.”

How had they gotten to this point? Barely half an hour ago, she was both so fuming mad and exasperated with him that she had to hold herself back from any visceral physical retaliation. Now, his sullen disappointment in her left her gut roiling with sickening guilt. She couldn’t remember a point in her life whence she had to cope with so many different fiercely intense emotions in such a short amount of time, and she was convinced he deserved at least half the credit for that. For whatever reason, her reactions seemed to overcome her much more vigorously than usual in his presence, like she couldn’t help herself but to experience every negative and positive thing to its fullest, and she had a hunch she had the same effect on him. Never mind she had only formally met him this evening – the two of them sure were an explosive pair.

She laid her hand on his arm, hoping to comfort him and not enrage him further. “Just so you know, I am sorry.”

He grunted, studying his crossed fingers like the secrets of the world could be found between them. A part of her was dejected by his non-answer, but she couldn’t begrudge him his muteness – if he felt only a fraction of her current confusion at how effortlessly they could rile each other up, she was more than sympathetic with him needing a bit of mental space.

She left him to his own thoughts and devices for a while longer, before she addressed him again. “I really am contrite that I put so much credence to the rumours I heard. But don’t you know what people on the street say about you?”

“I just don’t care. The people I care about know they’re not true, and everyone else can get fucked, most of them are only interested in my money and influence anyway.”

She nodded halfheartedly, lost in her own thought and wondering for the first time if he only regarded a selected few of the people downstairs as his real companions. “It’s good to have faithful friends,” she mused.

Thomas tried to catch her gaze at her dejected tone. “You don’t really sound like you believe in your own words.”

“I don’t have all that many friends,” she said and instantly berated herself for how incredibly pathetic she sounded. She didn’t want him to make a pitiful comment, so she pushed on with an upbeat inflection. “Books make for wonderful friends though, in my experience.”

He laughed full-heartedly for the first time, and she thought she rather liked the sound. “People do too, you know. The right ones, at least.”

The next minutes were spent in affable silence, both of them breathing in the changed air around them with contentment. When she realized she was still touching his arm, instead of ripping it away like she had been burned, she carefully retracted her limb with a sheepish smile.

He mustered her up again in a way that spoke of his unwillingness to disturb their tentative connection.

“I feel like I have been betrayed somehow,” he finally stated with a teasing smile. Her only answer was befuddled silence.

“You only used me for my extensive book collection. What about my many other assets and amenable qualities?”

She was relieved their conversation had turned to relaxed banter, and she snorted before she could stop herself. “I don’t even know if your so-called qualities divine amass to five, let alone more.”

He flinched briefly before his features smoothed out and an exaggerated gasp left his lips. “You wound me,” he pouted. “Nobody called for you to derogate my assets so despicably,” he said dramatically.

She rolled her eyes while thinking that she was simply paying him back his dues, he had been quite condescending and derogatory himself only minutes ago. There was a small part of her, though, that wondered if she had genuinely hurt his feelings, and if the disappointment she had seen flickering in his eyes for a second had been real or just a figment of her imagination.

She gave in and decided to play along. “Well then, sublime master of knowledge and keeper of books supreme, what are these spectacular qualities you have hidden from me and the world until now?”

He nodded self-importantly, but now she was confident it was in good humor. “For one, I am an incredible dancer – which you would know, had you deigned to stay at the party longer. You know, the thing everybody else came here for,” he pouted. She shrugged, she wasn’t much of a dancer herself, anyway. Although a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that _maybe, possibly_ , she wouldn’t mind it terribly if _he_ was the one guiding her over the dancefloor. She promptly told herself to hush.

“Secondly, despite the rather unfitting first impression you got of me, I am a pretty good listener.” She raised an eyebrow in fake challenge and encouraged him to move on.

“Thirdly, I am devilishly handsome,” he claimed with a twinkle in his eyes.

Frances laughed. “Oh my, and so humble, too. But I’m afraid the jury is still out on that one.” That was a blatant lie, and he knew it too. His disheveled dark hair as well as his amber eyes were anything but hard on her own. And were those golden specks in his pupils when he turned just right in the light? She leaned a little closer.

For scientific reasons, naturally.

“Right now, the only quality I can detect without question is that you’re absolutely insufferable,” she stated to cover up her smitten stare, but she made sure the teasing lilt to her voice was still easy to discern.

He smirked, then straightened his shoulders and looked down at her with an extremely cloudy expression that nonetheless revealed the playful curl around his lips. “Now that was a low blow. I think I’ll demand retribution, Francine.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, ignoring the nervous tingle in her stomach at his words, “why do you do that?”

His impishly dark facade fell away, utter confusion marring his features. “What?”

“Calling me Francine the whole time. I told you I’d rather you call me Frances.”

“Oh.” He fell quiet for a beat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was that important to you. It’s just, your father always calls you Francine when he speaks of you, so in my head, that’s just who you are.”

She turned her exasperated gaze to the ceiling. “Of course he would.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“If I’m being honest, I don’t even have much of an explanation. My mother insisted on the name, and while I know she loves me the way I am today, I am also aware that she and my gran always had someone more… delicate in mind. I guess it reminds me of my… shortcomings, if you want, but in a weird way. Because I am quite content with the way things are, don’t get me wrong, it’s just – the name taunts me with the possibilities of what my life would be like if I had turned out differently. And I am glad I became who I am today, even if things tend to be difficult sometimes. But Francine just isn’t me anymore, I think.” She inhaled deeply and gnawed on her lip, not sure if he was aware that she had just bared some of her innermost insecurities to him, or whether he drew any sense at all from her incoherent rambling.

Thomas watched her silently for a second, then acceded her with a nod. “I’ll try to… pay more attention to my words,” he said gently.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t know how to feel about having shared so much with him already. Even if she had to acquiesce that Thomas Fawley wasn’t, by any stretch, the hedonistic devil she had made him out to be, and even if she wouldn’t mind spending time with him in the possible future now that she had been able to judge him herself, they were not confidants in any sense of the word. Not yet, at least. They had went through such an absurd whirlwind of emotions together that she suddenly wondered whether the whole night had only been some sordid dream. Just to be sure, she pinched herself, hard, twisting the sensitive skin of her wrist between her nails. She blinked, but she was still sitting in the library, Thomas by her side.

S he was exhausted, she noted dimly. The precarious excitement of sneaking through dark corridors and the volatile feelings overwhelming her in this very room had left her drained.  She wanted nothing more than to fall into her bed and sleep off this weird experience that had fogged her mind with the same finesse of cheap wine. She also wanted to return to the easy, pleasant banter Thomas and her had shared before – not only had it filled her with a strange sort of excitement, it had kept her earlier uneasiness at bay, which now encroached on her once again, filling the empty space left behind by their silence. 

“Were those all of your qualities, already?” she breathed into the dark and cozy room, trying to revert back to the more playful and manageable moments of their short acquaintance.

“Hm, what?” Thomas seemed like he had been in a completely different world in his head and only came back to himself in pieces.

“You were listing your best qualities, and I only counted three so far,” she challenged him with a grin.

“Oh.” He tapped his chin in thought, then chanced a sideways glance at her and smirked. “I would describe myself as a devoted bibliophile, my love for the written word surely ranks among the finer traits of my character,” he roughly quoted her with a haughty voice.

She sardonically arched an eyebrow. “You’re a riot.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Are you, though?” she inquired. The thought that she could have actually found a kindred spirit in Thomas Fawley, of all people, filled her with a jittery kind of elation. If he had only made that comment in jest of her, she wasn’t certain if she would be able to bear it.

“Am I what?”

“A bibliophile. Did you actually read all these?”

“My, do I detect some elitist prejudice in your voice, Miss Whittam? I am appalled!” he cried out with theatrical emphasis.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” she chided, still holding out for an actual answer with baited breath.

“You could at least have the good grace to commend my thespian flair,” he lamented before turning serious again. “Contrary to what you may think – oh no, don’t deny it, you couldn’t possibly express your scepticism any more clearly even if you were to hold up a sign, believe me. Contrary to what you think, I do read quite a lot,” he asserted. “I haven’t read all of them, mind you, even I don’t have that much time to spare, but... I could show you some of my favourites, if you’d like.”

She perked up immediately and beamed at him, nodding frantically. He showed her around, sharing tales with her about the ones she didn’t yet know and even supplying unknown background knowledge for the ones she was already familiar with. When they finally settled down, they whiled away the hours with thoughtful conversation and reading, either in silence or reciting fascinating passages to each other.

When she looked out of the window, she found that the dark of night was fading, the horizon already glimmering with shades of pink and orange.

She grew somber at the realization that both her encounter with Thomas and her time in the library had come to an end. As she thought about the peculiar and weirdly wonderful developments of the night, the reminder of the very reason for her presence in the first place hit her like a tank wagon.

“The party!” she exclaimed, jumping up from the recliner. Thomas startled violently next to her, completely taken by surprise, and looked at her with bulging eyes.

“What of it?”

“Your guests!” she urged, thrown off by his absolute lack of agitation. “Won’t they wonder where you are? And won’t you have to… dissolve the whole affair… or something?”

He just shrugged, a smirk adorning his features again. “I’d venture an educated guess that most of them have already shown themselves out, except maybe for the more obstinate merrymakers. I’ll remind them of the main door’s whereabouts soon enough.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I should return home, too.” She turned hastily and grabbed for the book, about to restore the former order of the library. His hand on her wrist stopped her.

“That didn’t pertain to you. I’m not trying to throw you out, you know. In fact, I’ve – I think I’ve become rather fond of your company tonight, Frances,” he mollified her gently.

“Oh,” she breathed again, thoroughly flustered by his words and the searching gaze he had turned on her. She ordered her tongue to move, yet no words left her lips, needing a minute to get her bearings. “I- thank you for the kind words, Thomas. I feel I have no honest choice but to return them. Alas, it’s fairly late – or early, if you will – and I think it would be best if I took my leave now,” she pressed out.

She set about returning the books she had gathered to their rightful places when Thomas once again appeared at her side. “Let me,” he offered, pointing at the books.

When everything was put to rights, he accompanied her back to the foyer, setting a soundtrack to their trek downstairs by whistling a tune she had heard on the radio before. The words about the red, red robin instantly resounded in her head and she started to hum along, an odd, bubbly feeling of tranquility threatening to burst in her chest.

Having arrived at the door, he looked at her for a moment. “You know,” he said, almost like an afterthought, “I wouldn’t mind a repetition of tonight. Now that the air is cleared between us, at least you won’t have to resort to popping up at parties under false pretenses.”

“That is indeed very thoughtful of you,” she smiled.

“So. Will you visit me again?”

“Look, I don’t know how to possibly state this any more clearly since I have already abandoned your party in favour of your library, but when I decided to come here, it wasn’t for you,” she said coyly, faintly alluding to her extensive love for the place, but also to her change of heart. She expected him to throw some witticism or wisecrack right back at her, but his face fell, and she knew she hadn’t conveyed her meaning in a plain enough manner.

She was still preoccupied with her choice of words when he nodded gruffly, only to turn around and flinging a “Farewell, Frances” over his shoulder. Her time was running out.

“Stop!”, she cried, frantically lurching forward to grab his arm. “I am so sorry, I messed this up. Ugh, I’m just horrible at this. See, this is why I don’t have countless friends! What I want to say just never seems to come out right,” she bemoaned, but his face still didn’t show any stirrings of emotion.

“I mean… I said I didn’t come here for you originally, which is true. What I actually wanted to say, though, is that my opinion changed over the last hours. It turned around completely, as a matter of fact. I just- I wasn’t using empty phrases before when I said I returned your compliment. I enjoyed your company, too… so much so, in fact, that your library isn’t the only reason I want to be here anymore. If you’ll still have me, that is.”

H is gaze flickered between her eyes, scrutinizing her and probably looking for traces of deceit. She cautioned herself to keep her expression as open as possible, hoping to convince him of her sincerity.

He finally leaned back a bit, apparently appeased, and allowed a small smile to show on his face.

“You really gave me a scare there,” he quipped. “But in that case, you can rest assured you will always be welcome here. I’m sorry if I overreacted a bit.”

“No, it’s fine, it was my fault, really,” she objected. “In the future, I’ll try to be less bashful with my meaning around you.” As the look in his eyes softened, she quickly added “No promises, though!”, not yet ready for the endless minefield of feelings his glance promised.

He chuckled, reaching up to brush one of her curls out of her eyes. “Goodbye, Frances. I look forward to our next literary adventures.”

She slightly leaned into his gesture and smiled at him. “Me, too. I’ll see you, Thomas.”

She was a good dozen feet down the driveway when she remembered something and turned around, finding him still at the door and watching her. “Wait, I just realized you never really told me. What _did_ my father say to you about me?”

He grinned broadly. “ Oh,  this, that and everything. Although he mentioned several times that the two of us would make wonderful friends.” With a wink, he closed the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm sorry this was so very straight?  
> I'll start posting for different fandoms over the upcoming days. Some stories for B99, Uncharted and Detroit: Become Human are first in line. But feel free to contact me with ideas, if you like! Lots of love, Quokkalicious


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